114 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
sound of heart, that, however widely they may open, 
their widest candour brings no sense of disenchantment. 
Long trails of Gloire de Dijon climb the pergola and 
cling about the western wall, and as my eye dwells— 
somewhat coldly, I admit—upon its portly blooms, I 
am moved once more to marvel at the great rosarian’s 
choice. It was, if I remember rightly, Dean Hole who 
decided that, were he condemned to the companionship 
of but one rose in perpetuity, he would plead to be 
endowed with a strong plant of this same Gloire de 
Dijon, and even to this day I cannot fathom why it 
has been singled out for such high honour. It is 
enormously prolific, splendidly robust, magnificently 
generous of—what? For the most part, I maintain, of 
flowers amorphous as to form and indifferently coloured. 
It goes sadly against the grain to speak ill of any rose, 
but indeed I find little save the virtues of surety and 
quantity to recommend this over-rated tree. Towards 
the very end of the season, it is true, you may find that 
it has managed to produce some few elegantly-shaped, 
richly tinted buds; while all the rest of its time is 
busily employed in bringing to birth a profusion of 
large, iil-shapen sallow flowers for which I am pro¬ 
foundly ungrateful. No, rather let me leave that prob¬ 
lematical dock with a lusty plant of the fair, pearly-pink 
Viscountess Folkestone; or, should the nature of my 
punishment forbid a choice so highly placed, give 
me the delicate Princesse du Pays de Porcelaine, the 
dainty Monthly Rose. It is chiefly, I think, as a 
parent that the Gloire de Dijon is most worthy of 
respect. 
